


with your hand on this gun

by whitefang (radialarch)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Gun Kink, Identity Porn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 20:40:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1955448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch/pseuds/whitefang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain America and the Winter Soldier walk into a bar.</p><p>(They fuck.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	with your hand on this gun

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [С рукой на пистолете](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12007749) by [fandom_All_Avengers_and_MCU_2017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_All_Avengers_and_MCU_2017/pseuds/fandom_All_Avengers_and_MCU_2017), [NewBeginnings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewBeginnings/pseuds/NewBeginnings)



> Thank you to [Helen](/users/goodmenfall) for looking this over <3

He’s in Brooklyn because he remembers Brooklyn, and that’s an important thing these days, to remember.

He wonders if Hydra are looking for him. Unlikely: you do not abandon an asset you intend to keep. He woke up three weeks ago strapped to a chair, and alone. No techs, no agents, no one to give him orders.

He left. Since then that’s all he’s been doing: leaving one safehouse for another, leaving DC for Philadelphia, for New York. He keeps his arm hidden under sweatshirts and jackets, and pretends to be normal. Whole.

Pretending has consequences. Hydra never let him pretend for long, and always wiped him after. But it’s been three weeks and there’s no one to wipe him now. He’s been pretending to be a person and now he’s beginning to feel like one, someone with memories and a life and a name.

He’s in Brooklyn because he remembers Brooklyn, and now that he’s here he thinks he might like to forget.

  


He goes into a bar. He doesn’t know if he remembers it, or if the familiarity of it is a lie, cobbled together from memories of countless other bars. But there’s a man sitting alone at the bar, blond and broad-shouldered, and he thinks—

Something about the shape of the man stirs a hunger in him, a hard, selfish thing. The strength of it is startling — he hadn’t known he could want so badly, to need to touch and take wholly for himself. It feels terribly wrong, and he waits for someone to tell him so.

Nobody tells him. The man turns his head, eyes glancing across him and then snapping back — the man looks at the hand in his left pocket and the way he’s settled on his feet, looks up with eyes that are hard and dark: the same way he thinks his own eyes must be.

He slides onto the chair next to the man, orders a drink for something to do.

“What’s someone like you doing drinking alone,” he says.

The man’s shoulders twitch at his first words, but then he leans, narrowing the gap between their shoulders until he can nearly feel the heat of him all down his arm. He raises his glass, nearly empty, to drain it before he says, “Why, you got a better idea?”

His drink comes. He swallows the drink and lets it burn down into his stomach. He wonders if his smile is too sharp when he says, “How about we get out of here?”

The man’s eyes flick down, and his hand on the bar clenches, briefly, but then he nods, once, decisively. “Yeah, all right,” he says, sliding money across the bar without looking at it. “Let’s.”

  


He brings the man to the apartment. He takes off his jacket as the man looks around, glancing at the bare walls.

“You know, you remind me of someone,” the man says. He slips his jacket off, too, and it’s beautiful, the way his shirt slides over his body, rides up a little at the waist. “You got a name?”

He thinks he has a name. He thinks it’s a name because sometimes he remembers the sound of it, layered with strange affection, and the way it makes him want to turn around and grin.

He doesn’t say it because he is still working on not losing any part of himself. He says instead, “Does it matter?”

The man hesitates. He takes a step closer and puts his hands up, to bracket him by the shoulders, real and metal. He says, “I guess not,” with a wry little grin, and then leans forward to kiss him.

The man’s smile had been soft but he kisses hard, with teeth and a tongue that presses insistently into his mouth. He opens his mouth and lets the man in, bites back into the flesh of his bottom lip. The man’s hands are at the back of his head, warm against his neck, and that might be dangerous but it also feels good.

He presses them toward the bedroom, slipping his hands under the man’s shirt as they go. The man knocks his head against the doorframe but he just huffs out a laugh and presses back, until he’s trapped against the wall and the man’s fingers are warm at his waist, pulling his belt loose from its loops.

He leans forward before the man can undo his pants, sending them both toppling onto the bed. “Shirt,” he says, even as he’s reaching for the collar of his own, and he’s gratified to see the man do the same, licking at his lips.

The man’s shirt had clung to his body, but it’s still a surprise to see the expanse of smoothly chiseled muscle. “Jesus,” he says, running his hand over it, bringing his head down to carefully bite at one nipple.

He straightens up and sees the man staring — at his arm, at the scarred places where metal meets flesh. “Problem?” he asks, and it shouldn’t hurt to say but it does, somewhere deep where he’s small and he has a name.

“No.” There’s a grin on the man’s face when he tugs him close by a belt loop and says, “Just wondering if it’ll make it harder for you to fuck me like I want you to.”

The man’s mouth had curled around the word _fuck_ , very deliberate, and he smiles — slow, wide. “Oh, it won’t be a problem.”

He slides out of his pants and climbs onto the bed to straddle the man, who’s wriggling underneath him to take his own pants off. He groans a little at the friction, at the warm body of the man underneath him. The man’s pressing kisses to his neck, teeth scraping at the skin, and there’s a murmur underneath his breaths—

The man says, “Bucky—”

He’s turning them over in an instant, pressing the man down onto the bed with his knee in the small of his back. “What did you say?” he demands, even as he’s reaching behind the headboard for his pistol. His heart’s going fast and he wipes one hand on his thigh, trying to keep calm, keep _control_.

The man twists his head to look at him, eyes wide and hands pressed flat to the bed. “What are you doing?” he says. His mouth is bitten red and still a little wet.

“You said something.” He pulls the man up to a kneeling position, pushes him closer to the headboard and sets the pistol at his jaw, underneath his ear. “A name.” (His name; but is it his, or is he just pretending, that he has a name and a life and a past—)

“Bucky,” the man says, slowly, like the name might break otherwise. He’s looking at his arm and his face, all over like he’s searching for answers. “Jesus, I thought you just looked like—Bucky, it’s me, it’s Steve.”

“I don’t know you,” he says, automatic, and the man’s — _Steve’s_ — shoulders slump.

“You do,” Steve insists, his eyes round and very blue. “Please. Bucky.”

“Stop it,” he grinds out, pressing the barrel harder against Steve’s skin until it goes white. “You’re—I’m not—”

“You can trust me,” Steve says softly. He’s not looking at the gun, instead looking above it to meet his eyes. “Ask me anything, I’ll prove it.”

Steve is naked and has a gun to his head, and he doesn’t look scared at all, just pleading. He looks at the gun and looks at Steve and very carefully slides the barrel across to nudge at the corner of Steve’s mouth.

Steve’s lips part open. He can see Steve’s tongue flick out to lick at his lips before he wraps them around the gun like it’s nothing, hear the faint click of his teeth on metal. Steve’s eyes slide closed, his lashes very dark against the paleness of his cheek.

He could pull the trigger, and Steve wouldn’t even know it.

Steve leans forward as he takes in more of the barrel. When he pulls back there are traces of wetness where his mouth had been, dark and shining against the metal of the gun, and it’s absurd, it’s unreal—

It’s the most terrifying and beautiful thing he’s seen. It makes his breaths come out a little broken, and he’s starting to harden again, his cock stirring against Steve’s thigh.

Steve’s eyes are only half-open when he pulls his mouth off the barrel with a small wet noise. He holds up a hand, palm out, and slowly moves it forward.

Steve presses a hand to his chest, his chest which is trembling and he doesn’t know when that happened, he doesn’t know Steve ( _Steve_ ), he doesn’t know what he wants; all he knows is that his chest is trembling and Steve is touching him, still looking at him as he slides down his body and presses that same spit-slick mouth to his cock.

He jerks into the heat of Steve’s mouth. Steve’s hand has slipped down to his waist and his other hand is on his thigh, close by Steve’s head. Steve licks at the tip of his cock before he swallows it down like he had with the gun, and he—

Bucky drops the gun onto the bed and presses his hand to Steve’s hair. It’s soft under his palm but it anchors him, to a world where he is Bucky and he is real, the same way Steve is real and touching him.

Bucky looks down and Steve meets his gaze, very steady and true; and Bucky chokes out, “Steve,” as he comes, as he feels Steve swallowing around him.

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve says, climbing up to kiss him — to touch him like Bucky wants to touch Steve, like he wants to know the broken bits of him and put him back together. “It is, it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am so sorry this fic has absolutely no redeeming value whatsoever /o\
> 
> (If you're looking for that, try [Our Broken Parts (Smashed on the Floor)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/799237) instead, that's a much better fic.)


End file.
